Broken
by lastarael
Summary: Olivia discovers first hand what it is to be a victim, and the detectives of the SVU struggle to solve her case. An old plot line with a new twist. Olivia’s POV. R for language. [ Finally UPDATED ]
1. I

Summary:  Olivia discovers first hand what it is to be a victim, and the detectives of the SVU struggle to solve her case.  An old plot line with a new twist.  Olivia's POV.

Disclaimer:  I own Law & Order: SVU, and I'm raking in piles of money with this story.  *Laughs.*  Man, I have a great dream life….Translation:  don't own, don't know, don't sue.

A/N:  Plot bunnies have been run rampant in my head, and they finally held me at gunpoint and told me to start writing.  So here it is.  Let me know if I should continue.  The more feedback I get, the faster I write.  *Grins evilly.*

**Broken**

My eyelids felt like lead weights at first, and resisted my efforts to open them as I drifted into consciousness.  I shifted my weight as blurry shapes came into view, and heard a low moan as pain shot through my body.  By the time I realized that I myself had made the sound, the sharp edge of my desk had come into view, along with soft light from the window.  I was on the floor, next to my desk at work.  I was – I moved my arms – handcuffed to my desk, arms above my head.  And I was in pain.

Blinking groggily, I gingerly moved each body part, taking a mental inventory.  My hips, legs, arms, and wrists were sore.  Pain shot through one calf.  My jaw and neck ached.  And my nose was filled with the all-too-familiar acrid stench of blood.  Mine.  I lifted my pounding head, craning my neck towards the desk at my head.  My neck popped, and I couldn't decide if it caused more pain or more relief.  I twisted it again after taking stock of nearly-dried blood streaked across the side of the desk, and half-moaned as it popped again.  Once on the other side of my vision, I saw my hands, bloodied from cuts on my wrists, a result of the handcuffs or something else I couldn't tell.  Following the blood trail down my arms and taking in long gashes down my forearms, I decided it was both – my attacker...my _attacker_…had cut me.

As soon as the thought of my _attacker_ crossed my mind, my senses went into overdrive and I flat-out panicked.  I jerked my head toward my feet, momentarily ignoring the pain, and realized I was naked and uncovered.  Blood covered from my thighs to my ankles, dried in rivulets where it hadn't been smeared across my skin.  I had been raped.  Raped.  Holy…oh, fuck fuck fuck _fuck_.  _Raped_.  I dealt with it on a daily basis, but rape had rarely been something I'd considered happening to me.  Sure, there were those times where a SVU detective would have the fleeting thought…_what if something like this happened to me…or worse, to someone I care about_.  But such thoughts were always quickly pushed out of my head as I made myself concentrate on the business at hand.  And it certainly wasn't a subject you'd want to get back to…so I never did.

Well, now it had.  And I was being pretty damn analytic about it, too.  Better not to get into the emotional side of it anytime soon, though, if I could help it.  I had to stay calm, get help, get…_fixed_.  Surely there was a way to fix this, make it go away.  Why couldn't life have one of those great "Edit/Undo" functions?  Dear Lord, I'd been raped.  What was I supposed to do?  I was past the threat of bleeding to death, but…I'd been raped.  What about the hospital?  There, handcuffed to a desk in a public building, albeit empty, the hospital seemed a world away.  Was I supposed to go to the police?  That was a joke.  I _was_ the police.  Since I was a little girl, I couldn't remember feeling so helpless as I did then.

I allowed myself a moment to lay there, basking in self-pity, until I felt two tears, then three, roll down my cheeks.  I angrily wiped them against the available arm, probably smearing blood all over my face but frankly not caring.  I wasn't going to think about anything like that now.  Just think about what to do next.

First, handcuffs.  Get them off.  A quick search of items in reach came up lacking:  there was a box of police-issue latex gloves, a razor, which he'd evidently used to slice me up with, an empty condom box – the kind you buy in a gas station restroom – and a white rose in a vase, all neatly arranged to my right.  The perp was smart.  And neat.  To damn neat.  Pissed off at my lack of options and my earlier weakness, I lifted my right leg – the one that protested the least – and kicked the vase as hard as I could, sending it hurtling into a nearby desk.  I wanted to see it smash into a thousand little pieces, but it turned out to be plastic, and simply fell over and rolled away, pouring all of its water onto the floor beside John's desk.  I huffed furiously – _plastic_, it fucking figured – then forced myself to turn back to my options.

Nothing doing there as far as escape went.  I tugged on the handcuffs, then my desk, though I knew from experience that it would be useless.  It hit me as mildly ironic that this time I was on the receiving end of the cuffs, though I was still the good guy here.

Alright, so I had to find another alternative.  There had to be something here that was blatantly obvious that I was just missing.  The phones?  Out of reach.  By far.  Unless I could do one of those lovely gymnastic moves where I pushed my feet into the air and balanced on my neck and shoulders, then pick the phone up and dial 911 blindly with my toes, the phone was not an option.  Oh wait, it wouldn't matter if I could do a candlestick in the first place.  I'd just realized that the phone was now on the other side of the desk.  How nice of him to leave me incapacitated.

I paused to take a moment to marvel at my ability to be sarcastic yet logical.

Wait…him.  Who was _him_, anyways?  And for that matter, what the hell happened?  And why couldn't I remember it?  Stress I assumed, or a drug.  But that didn't answer the first two questions.

What time was it?  The meager light from the windows was getting stronger by the moment, so it had to be sometime in the morning.  I couldn't spot a clock anywhere.  It was sometime, hopefully, right before help would come.

I blinked in realization.  Did I even want help to come?  What I really wanted was for this never to have happened – for it to have been just one vivid nightmare – but the best I could hope for would be to get myself out of this mess and clean myself up and forget about it.  Certainly, I didn't want anyone seeing me like this.  I didn't want strangers to see me naked, and I didn't want to face the fact that my friends and co-workers will look at me and know….

Why didn't he just kill me?  Did he try, and it not work?  Or did he leave me there to _live_?  A fate, I pondered, that was worse than dying?  Was this how my mother felt?  Was this how all the rape victims I dealt with every day felt at some point in time?  Would I feel differently later?  Would I ever be able to move past this, to get on with my life, or would it kill me slowly like it did my mother?  Would someone ever come and rescue me from my thoughts?

I didn't know how long I'd been laying in that position, but suddenly I felt very stiff, and exposed.  I slowly, painfully drew my legs up toward my desk, curling myself into as tight a ball as possible.  At the same time I pulled myself up, allowing my arms to bend for the first time in quite a while, and sighed in relief as I rolled my shoulders to ease the tension.  Lying my head on one arm, heedless of the now-dried blood, I sighed, resigned to waiting until something new happened.  Surely it wouldn't be that long of a wait.  I'd been sitting there unconscious for…who knows how long?  And then I'd been awake for quite a while, I knew.  It was only a matter of time before someone had to come in….  Right…?

Suddenly images of unscheduled department vacations and unanimous sick days took flight in my mind.  My eyes widened as I attempted to dismiss such thoughts as folly.  That had never happened before, and my bad luck wasn't strong enough to make it happen a first time.  I just had to wait, the SVU would be buzzing with activity soon after the first few people drifted in this morning.  Someone would come and make this all better, soon.  I just had to be patient.  Just wait.

_Wait…just wait…just wait_…I let the mantra fill my mind soothingly, and barely registered surprise as my eyes slowly drifted close into sweet oblivion.


	2. II

Summary:  Olivia discovers first hand what it is to be a victim, and the detectives of the SVU struggle to solve her case.  An old plot line with a new twist.  Olivia's POV.

Disclaimer:  I own Law & Order: SVU, and I'm raking in piles of money with this story.  *Laughs.*  Man, I have a great dream life….Translation:  don't own, don't know, don't sue.

A/N:  If you like it, review it.  Heck, if you don't like it, review it – at least do me the favor of letting me know what I'm doing wrong.  Point is, _reviewing is good_.  Hint:  it's the little blue box in the bottom left hand corner of your window.

**Broken**

For a second time that morning I battled with my eyelids for dominance.  Finally they opened, and I stared at the side of my arm for a moment before focusing on the dusty floor around the corner of my desk.  I made a mental note to clean sometime soon.  But now I had someone else who'd do that for me, what with all the blood streaking the floor.  Yay.

Unfortunately, I hadn't forgotten the situation I'd found myself in, and, even more unfortunately, I found that it hadn't changed at all since the last time I checked.

What was it that had woken me up, then?  There it was again:  a footstep.  Footstep mean foot.  Foot meant person.  Hopefully.  Person meant…help?  All my muscles suddenly tightened and I jerked, then groaned at the pain that shot through my body.  The steps hesitated.

Part of my mind was screaming that it was _Him_ coming back to finish me off.  The other, more rational part bitch-slapped its other half and reasoned that it was help coming.  He wasn't stupid enough to come back.  And even if he was, it wasn't like he didn't know where he'd left me, right?  He'd remembered the condom and the latex gloves, certainly he wouldn't forget a detail that important.

"Hello?" I half-whimpered.  The sound came out scratchy, whiny, and hardly recognizable as a word.

The footsteps quickened.  There was a certain rhythm to them.  I knew that step.  My suspicions were confirmed when Captain Donald Cragen carefully peered around the corner.

He paused for a moment, eyes wide, when he saw me.  Shock, I assumed.  Join the club.

"Oh my God.  Olivia.  My God."  He started towards me and my muscles, deciding to take control of the situation, spasmed again.  I smacked my arm on the foot of my desk.  He stopped as soon as he saw me involuntarily flinch away.  "Liv?"

I closed my eyes, mortified.  The gravity of the situation slammed into me without warning.  I was handcuffed and naked, had been raped, and now everyone I'd ever respected would see me like this.  I just wanted to die, to dissolve into the floor and never have to face another human being again.

Instead, I settled for curling tighter into my fetal position, cradling my smarting arm as much as I could considering the circumstances.

"Livia."  I screwed my eyes closed even tighter, emotions surging at the pity in his voice.  I would _not_ cry.  Not again.  My chin wobbled.  Not crying.  _Not_ crying.  A tear made its way down my face.  _Dammit_.  "Oh Liv."  Another tear.  Another.  I was so ashamed.  I hadn't done anything, and I was _ashamed_.

"I" – I choked – "I didn't…I didn't do…."  I don't quite know what I was trying to say, but I didn't accomplish it very well.

"Oh Livia."  He was suddenly right there, gathering me into his arms.  I pushed my unwarranted fear away and allowed him to hold me.  He was instantly the father I'd never had, and he was making up for all the scraped knees and bruised elbows where no one had ever comforted me, or patched me up and told me I'd be okay.

"Liv, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry."  I couldn't understand at the moment what he was sorry for, but it didn't matter, because he was there now.  Finally, someone was there.

"Holy shit."  Wonderful.  Two someones.  John Munch stood in the doorway, much as the Captain had earlier, gaping at the scene.  I cringed at the new presence, and felt the Captain's arms tighten reassuringly around me.

"Munch, call a bus," he ordered, "and find a blanket or something."  Cragen produced a set of keys from out of nowhere and quickly addressed the handcuff issue.  Took his damn time getting to it, but I didn't fault him for it.  With my arms free, I quickly pulled them in, cradling them across my chest and trying to cover myself at the same time.  I suppose it should have been awkward, my boss holding me as I lay naked on the floor of the department, but it was too comforting to bother me at the moment.  I relaxed into his arms, grateful that I was now too numb to cry any longer.

"Yeah, this is Detective Munch at the SVU.  I need a bus over here pronto….No, to the department.  Yeah.  Thanks."  I shivered again, now more cold than afraid, and John, having finished his conversation, approached carefully and draped his coat over me.  I honestly haven't a clue why the Captain didn't think of that, but I really didn't feel like questioning it.  Afterwards, he quickly turned tail, as if he was afraid to look at me, and rushed to the crib where he picked up a blanket or towel or something else soft and white to replace his coat.  I was grateful for both the cover and his discretion.  I groped for the edge of the cloth and, finding it, pulled it snugly around my shoulders.  After completing that tremendous task, I buried my face in the Captain's chest, feeling more and more like a little girl, trying to escape.

And I could escape, in part, from my horrible reality.  But try as I might, I couldn't block out everything.  The dull ache of numerous wounds.  The stench of blood that still filled my nostrils, mixed with the more pleasant smell of Cragen's cologne.  A soft blanket wrapped around me, the only thing separating me from the embarrassed eyes of my friends.  Sounds that drifted to my ears.  Footsteps.  Whispering.  Gasps, then muttered curses.  I heard others in the office intercepted by Munch, turned back, told to wait outside because something unthinkable had happened.  I heard Elliot's voice, puzzled, then incredulous, then panicked and demanding.  Heard him rush into the room.  Heard him stop, suddenly, breath hitched in his chest.

I wanted to say something, I really did.  But it took too much strength to turn away from the comforting arms that held me.

"Oh God.  Is she…she's ok?"  His tone was that of one grasping desperately at the last trace of hope.  Damn, did I look that bad?

"She's gonna be okay," the Captain reassured him.  "She's lost a lot of blood" – no shit, I thought silently – "but…we've called a bus, they'll be there soon."  That's good.  "She's just scared."  Oh, thanks.  "Talk to her."  Sure.  But don't count on me talking back.

I heard a rustle of clothes nearby, and then Elliot's voice, tentative, quiet.  "Liv?"  I debated whether or not to answer.  It would save a lot of energy and embarrassment if I just pretended to be asleep, or unconscious.  But I didn't want to worry Elliot or Cragen.  Or John, wherever he might be.

"Holy fuck."  Or Fin, who had just arrived, judging by the familiar voice.  Yet another person coming to join the party.  Yay.

"Livia, talk to me," Elliot begged.

Fine.  Dammit.  "What do you want me to say?" I mumbled into the warm shirt.

"Uh.  That works."  I could hear him half-smile.  I'm surprised he understood me.  "How are you feeling?"

"How do you think I'm feeling?"  I turned my head so I wasn't nearly suffocating

"Okay…good point."  Thought so.  "So, um…."  I could practically hear his brain working to find a subject that would keep me conscious.  "How was that movie?"

Huh?  "What movie?"  I was confused.

"The movie you were going to go see."

"I…I don't think I saw a movie.  I don't remember."  Ok, I lied.  The memories were slowly coming back.  I got off work.  I was going to a movie.  With…a guy.  I struggled to remember the name.  Black hair, spiked in the front, about my height, brown – no, green – eyes.  Name started with an R.  Ra….  Ran….  Randall?  Randy.  Yeah.

"Randy," I mumbled.

"Randy?" Cragen asked.  "Is that who you were going with?  Randy?"

"Is that who did this?" Elliot asked at the same time.

The Captain shot Elliot a glare.  That topic was off limits.  I guess it wasn't Elliot's fault, though, that the innocent, keep-her-talking subject had turned into _that_.

"I don't know," I answered honestly, despite Cragen's worried glance.  "I-I….  Do you want to go ahead and get my statement?  Or wait until I actually remember something?"

"Uh…"  Elliot looked to the Captain for guidance.  Perhaps I shouldn't be quite so calm and logical, but I much preferred this to crying and screaming irrationally.

"Why don't we wait for later?" Cragen suggested.  I personally thought this was a sensible idea.  My statement now would be 'fuck if I know.'

"I think I hear the bus coming," he continued.  Sure enough, the wailing of sirens filtered through the open doors.  The ambulance was on its way.

Wonderful.  More people to gawk at me, to poke and prod me.  I winced at the idea of the rape kit, and felt Cragen's arms tightened around me.  Sighing, resigned to my dubious fate, I once again turned my face to the Captain, burying my worries in the comfort of his now-familiar cologne.


	3. III

Summary: Olivia discovers first hand what it is to be a victim, and the detectives of the SVU struggle to solve her case. An old plot line with a new twist. Olivia's POV.

Disclaimer: I own Law & Order: SVU, and I'm raking in piles of money with this story. Laughs. Man, I have a great dream life….Translation: don't own, don't know, don't sue.

A/N: Thanks for all of you wonderful readers who've reviewed. My sincerest apologies for not writing in…what? 3 years? You have no idea how much I've appreciated your reviews. Unfortunately, I can't promise when I'll be able to write the next chapter. I honestly thought that I'd given up on this, but I got inspired (at 3am, as usual), so…here's chapter 3 - finally!

**Broken**

The paramedics busted in like heroes into a burning building crammed with children. The first two faltered at the sight of all the blood, getting bumped from behind by a third. I lifted my head from Captain Cragen's chest, glancing over the two paramedics, then eyeing their bags. I never remembered them being so melodramatic before. The third filed in behind with a stretcher. I lowered my left ear to my shoulder to crack my neck, closing my eyes when it popped satisfyingly, then repeated the procedure to the right. Straightening my head, I turned back to the shocked paramedics. I stretched out another kink, this time in my back, pursing my lips at the pain. Heaving a sigh, I pulled away from Cragen's arms, wrapping the blanket tighter around me. I thought of all the girls I'd seen in my exact position right now. I was struggling to keep it together, to retain my dignity while crouching naked and bloodied on the floor of a squad room with friends and colleagues gathered around staring in what I'm sure was concern, but what now felt like gawkiness. Never once did I ever wish to be the center of attention of everyone in the station house, but this would have been at the top of the list of bad situations had I ever imagined that this could happen.

But it had, and I was left alive to suffer through the aftermath, for better or worse. And sitting here contemplating my bleak situation wouldn't get me anywhere. So I pulled myself into a completely upright position, then moved on to the task of standing. My abused muscles protested the effort, and I almost collapsed. Cragen and one of the nameless paramedics steadied me. The stretcher was pulled closer and lowered, and two paramedics helped me on.

The stretcher was harder than I remembered it being the few times I'd had the dubious opportunity of sitting on one. The starch white cover was now marred with dried blood. For some off-the-wall reason – but, at this point, what was normal? – I was mildly concerned about getting the stretcher dirty. There was a slight jerk as they raised the stretcher up and locked it into place. They paused half a second to make sure I was comfortable and still, and started rolling me towards the door. Oh my God, I was going to pass all of the people waiting outside the squad room. They were probably confused, concerned…annoyed? were any of them mad at me?...standing with their morning coffees in hand outside the doors. What if they were mad at me?

Once again the rational side of my consciousness stepped in and bullied its lesser half into a calmer frame of mind. Why the hell would they be mad at you? I think your predicament trumps their irritation at being thrown out of their routine. Why am I talking to myself in second person? Why am I talking to myself at all? I should be more worried about the hundreds of people who were about to see me in a very vulnerable position. _Hundreds, really?_ Ok, so maybe that was a slight exaggeration.

"Stop!" I didn't realize I'd said it until my entourage stopped and looked at me inquiringly. I turned my head and realized we weren't heading towards the mass of people after all. We were going out the back way. Duh. I rolled my eyes at my stupidity, then noticed that they – Elliot, the EMTs, and probably the rest of the room – were looking at me intently. I suddenly had the urge once again to sink into the ground and disappear. Or, in this case, the white starched fabric of the stretcher.

So, there were considerably less people between the squad room and the ambulance then I was anticipating now. I'm assuming they had someone move the bus around. That was nice. Thoughtful. I guess I should appreciate it.

Whatever. I wiggled my way into a comfortable position and closed my eyes, mentally attempting to shut everyone and everything out. If I could fall asleep, I wouldn't think about my nakedness, vulnerability…rape…and everyone who now knew about it. Dear lord, I'd been _raped_.

Ok, shut up. Just shut up. And go to sleep. No negative thoughts, just…shut it all down. Don't think at all. I vaguely noticed that we'd stopped, after rolling over something rougher than the squad room floor – asphalt. I felt a slight jolt as they adjusted the stretcher and loaded me into the bus.

I heard Elliot's voice. "Come on Liv, you gotta stay with us now."

"Open those eyes for me now," I heard another voice, presumably a paramedic, tell me. Screw you, my eyes can stay closed as long as they damn well please. Someone tapped gently on my hand. I clenched it and squeezed my eyes closed even tighter. At least they could tell I was awake.

Once in – I could tell because I stopped moving and heard the doors close; wonderful deduction techniques, those – one of the paramedics gently touched my wrist with one hand, then the underside of the same arm with the other, obviously intending to turn it over so he could inspect the cuts. What the hell was the bastard's problem?! He actually _cut_ me with a _razor_. And left it sitting there, neatly arranged next to the flowers and condom box. Like he was mocking me. I thrashed out, just wanting to get away from his touch.

"Liv! Easy, he's just trying to help!" I heard my partner's urgent tone and froze, realizing that I'd just hauled off and smacked an EMT. I sat half-way up and his face came into focus.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Wow, this was embarrassing. I can't believe I just punched one of the good guys. Wait, embarrassing? What about this entire situation wasn't embarrassing? Mortifying, even. But the guy didn't look incredibly offended, or hurt, but looked at me more like…he felt sorry for me. Pity. That was what was in his eyes. Well I didn't want his pity, didn't even want to be in the damn ambulance with him. I just wanted to be at home in my bed, and all of this stuff be a dream. A nightmare. But the closest I could get to the safety of my bed was blissful unconsciousness, right here on this stretcher. My subconscious was right there with me, and quite a bit more insistent as it tried to achieve a full mental shutdown.

Unfortunately the paramedics were hell bent on keeping me awake. And Elliot was still beside me. Evidently he wasn't just escorting me to the bus. I guess that's like +10 on the partner devotion scale. Wow, I've been on here for what seems like forever – probably all of five minutes – and I'm just now becoming aware that he hadn't gotten off? Here he was holding my hand, talking to me, but now I just couldn't quite make sense of the words. I let my eyes drift close again – when had they opened? – and he jiggled my hand. The unintelligible words gained a sense of urgency. Why did he want so much for me to stay awake? Any risk of bleeding to death was over. Shock wasn't the issue, I'd already come through that with less-than-flying-colors. I wasn't being that great of company, either, what with hitting my rescuers and all that.

"Just let me go to sleep." And there goes my subconscious again, taking its own initiative and not letting me know beforehand. Ah, I'm not sure if it was intelligible anyways.

"We can't let you do that." The male voice was assertive but gentle. I'm impressed by his mumble-recognition skills, but…

"Why not?" Holy crap, I was having a conversation. No. My subconscious was having a conversation, and I was not invited. But, admirably, it seemed to be doing a bang-up job all on its own, so, might as well get some sleep in the meantime.

I'm not quite sure what the voice's response was, as after that decision my brain took it upon itself to just shut down. I didn't mind at all. This was really what I was hoping for. Just next time _I_ want to be the one calling the shots, not this sneaky little subconsciousness. I would have continued on this monologue for far longer than sane people are supposed to if the wonderful darkness which blocked out the outside noise hadn't then shutdown my thoughts. And the scary thing is that part of me just didn't want to wake up.


End file.
